opinion. My daughter is not old enough yet to be thinking of marriage
and such like. Children do be thoughtless. I am sorry for all the
trouble she has given you, and"--a sudden compunction stirred her, for
the man was standing up now, and there was no trace of Mrs. O'Connor
visible in him: his face was as massive and harsh as a piece of wall.
"Don't you be thinking too badly of us now," said Mrs. Makebelieve
with some agitation; "the child is too young altogether to be asking
her to marry. Maybe in a year or two--I said things I know, but I was
vexed, and...."
The big man nodded his head and marched out.
Mary ran to her mother moaning like a sick person, but Mrs.
Makebelieve did not look at her. She lay down on the bed and turned
her face to the wall, and she did not speak to Mary for a long time.
XXXI
When the young man who lodged with Mrs. Cafferty came in on the
following day he presented a deplorable appearance. His clothes were
torn and his face had several large strips of sticking-plaster on it,
but he seemed to be in a mood of extraordinary happiness
notwithstanding, and proclaimed that he had participated in the one
really great fight of his life-time, that he wasn't injured at all,
and that he wouldn't have missed it for a pension.
Mrs. Cafferty was wild with indignation, and marched him into Mrs.
Makebelieve's room, where he had to again tell his story and have his
injuries inspected and commiserated. Even Mr. Cafferty came into the
room on this occasion. He was a large, slow man dressed very
comfortably in a red beard--his beard was so red and so persistent
that it quite overshadowed the rest of his wrappings and did, indeed,
seem to clothe him. As he stood the six children walked in and out of
his legs, and stood on his feet in their proper turns without causing
him any apparent discomfort. During the young man's recital Mr.
Cafferty every now and then solemnly and powerfully smote his left
hand with his right fist, and requested that the aggressor should be
produced to him.
The young man said that as he was coming home the biggest man in the
world walked up to him. He had never set eyes on the man before in his
life, and thought at first he wanted to borrow a match or ask the way
to somewhere, or something like that, and, accordingly, he halted; but
the big man gripped him by the shoulder and said "You damned young
whelp," and then he laughed and hit him a tremendous blow with his
other hand. He twisted himself free at that, and said "What's that
for?" and then the big man made another desperate clout at him. A
fellow wasn't going to stand that kind of thing, so he let out at him
with his left and then jumped in with two short-arm jabs that must
have tickled the chap; that fellow didn't have it all his own way
anyhow.... The young man exhibited his knuckles, which were skinned
and bleeding, as evidence of some exchange; but, he averred, you might
as well be punching a sack of coal as that man's face. In another
minute they both slipped and rolled over and over in the road, hitting
and kicking as they sprawled: then a crowd of people ran forward and
pulled them asunder. When they were separated he saw the big man lift
his fist, and the person who was holding him ducked suddenly and ran
for his life: the other folk got out of the way too, and the big man
walked over to where he stood and stared into his face. His jaw was
stuck out like the seat of a chair and his moustache was like a
bristle of barbed wire. The young man said to him, "What the hell's
wrong with you to go bashing a man for nothing at all?" and all of a
sudden the big fellow turned and walked away. It was a grand fight
altogether, said the youth, but the other man was a mile and a half
too big for him.
As this story proceeded Mrs. Makebelieve looked once or twice at her
daughter. Mary's face had gone very pale, and she nodded back a
confirmation of her mother's conjecture; but it did not seem necessary
or wise to either of them that they should explain their thoughts. The
young man did not require either condolences or revenge. He was well
pleased at an opportunity to measure his hardihood against a worthy
opponent. He had found that his courage exceeded his strength, as it
always should, for how could we face the gods and demons of existence
if our puny arms were not backed up by our invincible eyes? and he
displayed his contentment at the issue as one does a banner emblazoned
with merits. Mrs. Makebelieve understood also that the big man's
action was merely his energetic surrender, as of one who, instead of
tendering his sword courteously to the victor, hurls it at him with a
malediction; and that in assaulting their friend he was bidding them
farewell as heartily and impressively as he was able. So they fed the
young man and extolled him, applauding to the shrill winding of his
trumpet until he glowed again in the full satisfaction of heroism.
He and Mary did not discontinue their evening walks. Of these Mrs.
Makebelieve was fully cognizant, and, although she did not remark on
the fact, she had been observing the growth of their intimacy with a
care which was one part approval and one part pain; for it was very
evident to her that her daughter was no longer a child to be
controlled and directed by authority. Her little girl was a big girl;
she had grown up and was eager to undertake the business of life on
her own behalf. But the period of Mrs. Makebelieve's motherhood had
drawn to a close, and her arms were empty. She was too used now to
being a mother to relinquish easily the prerogatives of that status,
and her discontent had this justification and assistance that it could
be put into definite words, fronted and approved or rejected as reason
urged. By knowledge and thought we will look through a stone wall if
we look long enough, for we see less through eyes than through Time.
Time is the clarifying perspective whereby myopia of any kind is
adjusted, and a thought emerges in its field as visibly as a tree does
in nature's. Mrs. Makebelieve saw seventeen years' apprenticeship to
maternity canceled automatically without an explanation or a courtesy,
and for a little time her world was in ruins, the ashes of existence
powdered her hair and her forehead. Then she discovered that the
debris was valuable in known currency; the dust was golden: her love
remained to her undisturbed and unlikely to be disturbed by whatever
event. And she discovered further that parentage is neither a game nor
a privilege but a duty; it is, astounding thought, the care of the
young until the young can take care of itself. It was for this freedom
only that her elaborate care had been necessary; her bud had blossomed
and she could add no more to its bloom or fragrance. Nothing had
happened that was not natural, and whoso opposes his brow against that
imperious urgency is thereby renouncing his kind and claiming a
kinship with the wild boar and the goat, which they, too, may
repudiate with leaden foreheads. There remained also the common human
equality, not alone of blood, but of sex also, which might be fostered
and grow to an intimacy more dear and enduring, more lovely and loving
than the necessarily one-sided devotions of parentage. Her duties in
that relationship having been performed, it was her daughter's turn to
take up her's and prove her rearing by repaying to her mother the
conscious love which intelligence and a good heart dictates. This
given, Mrs. Makebelieve could smile happily again, for her arms would
be empty only for a little time. The continuity of nature does not
fail saving for extraordinary instances. She sees to it that a breast
and an arm shall not very long be unoccupied, and, consequently, as
Mrs. Makebelieve sat contemplating that futurity which is nothing more
than a prolongation of experience she could smile contentedly, for all
was very well.
XXXII
If the unexpected did not often happen life would be a logical,
scientific progression which might become dispirited and repudiate its
goal for very boredom, but nature has cunningly diversified the
methods whereby she coaxes or coerces us to prosecute, not our own,
but her own adventure. Beyond every corner there may be a tavern or a
church wherein both the saint and the sinner may be entrapped and
remolded. Beyond the skyline you may find a dynamite cartridge, a
drunken tinker, a mad dog, or a shilling which some person has
dropped; and any one of these unexpectednesses may be potent to urge
the traveler down a side street and put a crook in the straight line
which had been his life, and to which he had become miserably
reconciled. The element of surprise being, accordingly, one of the
commonest things in the world we ought not to be hypercritical in our
review of singularities, or say--"These things do not happen,"--because
it is indisputable that they do happen. That combination which
comprises a dark night, a highwayman armed and hatted to the teeth,
and myself, may be a purely fortuitous one, but will such a criticism
bring any comfort to the highwayman? And the concourse of three
benevolent millionaires with the person to whom poverty can do no
more is so pleasant and possible that I marvel it does not occur more
frequently. I am prepared to believe on the very lightest assurance
that these things do happen, but are hushed up for reasons which
would be cogent enough if they were available.
Mrs. Makebelieve opened the letter which the evening's post had
brought to her. She had pondered well before opening it, and had
discussed with her daughter all the possible people who could have
written it. The envelope was long and narrow, it was addressed in a
swift emphatic hand, the tail of the letter M enjoying a career
distinguished beyond any of its fellows by length and beauty. The
envelope, moreover, was sealed by a brilliant red lion with jagged
whiskers and a simper, who threatened the person daring to open a
missive not addressed to him with the vengeance of a battle-axe which
was balanced lightly but truculently on his right claw.
This envelope contained several documents purporting to be copies of
extraordinary originals, and amongst them a letter which was read by
Mrs. Makebelieve more than ten thousand times or ever she went to bed
that night. It related that more than two years previously one Patrick
Joseph Brady had departed this life, and that his will, dated from a
multitudinous address in New York, devised and bequeathed to his
dearly beloved sister Mary Eileen Makebelieve, otherwise Brady, the
following shares and securities for shares, to wit:--and the
thereinafter mentioned houses and messuages, lands, tenements,
hereditaments and premises, that was to say:--and all household
furniture, books, pictures, prints, plate, linen, glass and objects of
vertu, carriages, wines, liquors and all consumable stores and effects
whatsoever then in the house so and so, and all money then in the Bank
and thereafter to accrue due upon the thereinbefore mentioned stocks,
funds, shares and securities.... Mrs. Makebelieve wept and besought
God not to make a fool of a woman who was not only poor but old. The
letter requested her to call on the following day, or at her earliest
convenience, to "the above address," and desired that she should bring
with her such letters or other documents as would establish her
relationship to the deceased and assist in extracting the necessary
Grant of Probate to the said Will, and it was subscribed by Messrs.
Platitude & Glambe, Solicitors, Commissioners for Oaths and Protectors
of the Poor.
To the Chambers of these gentlemen Mrs. Makebelieve and Mary repaired
on the following day, and, having produced the letters and other
documents for inspection, the philanthropists, Platitude and Glambe,
professed themselves to be entirely satisfied as to their bona fides,
and exhibited an eagerness to be of immediate service to the ladies in
whatever capacity might be conceived. Mrs. Makebelieve instantly
invoked the Pragmatic Sanction; she put the entire matter to the
touchstone of absolute verity by demanding an advance of fifty pounds.
Her mind reeled as she said the astounding amount, but her voice did
not. A check was signed and a clerk dispatched, who returned with
eight five-pound notes and ten sovereigns of massy gold. Mrs.
Makebelieve secreted these, and went home marveling to find that she
was yet alive. No trams ran over her. The motor cars pursued her, and
were evaded. She put her hope in God, and explained so breathlessly to
the furious street. One cyclist who took corners on trust she cursed
by the Ineffable Name, but instantly withdrew the malediction for
luck, and addressed his dwindling back with an eye of misery and a
voice of benediction. For a little time neither she nor her daughter
spoke of the change in their fortunes saving in terms of allusion;
they feared that, notwithstanding their trust, God might hear and
shatter them with His rolling laughter. They went out again that day
furtively and feverishly and bought....
But on the following morning Mrs. Makebelieve returned again to her
labor. She intended finishing her week's work with Mrs. O'Connor (it
might not last for a week). She wished to observe that lady with the
exact particularity, the singleness of eye, the true, candid, critical
scrutiny which had hitherto been impossible to her. It was, she said
to Mary, just possible that Mrs. O'Connor might make some remarks
about soap. It was possible that the lady might advance theories as to
how this or that particular kind of labor ought to be conducted....
Mrs. Makebelieve's black eye shone upon her child with a calm peace, a
benevolent happiness rare indeed to human regard.
In the evening of that day Mary and the young man who lodged with
their neighbor went out for the walk which had become customary with
them. The young man had been fed with an amplitude which he had never
known before, so that not even the remotest slim thread, shred, hint,
echo or memory of hunger remained with him: he tried but could not
make a dint in himself anywhere, and, consequently, he was as sad as
only a well-fed person can be. Now that his hunger was gone he deemed
that all else was gone also. His hunger, his sweetheart, his hopes,
his good looks (for his injuries had matured to the ripe purple of
the perfect bruise) all were gone, gone, gone. He told it to Mary, but
she did not listen to him; to the rolling sky he announced it and it
paid no heed. He walked beside Mary at last in silence, listening to
her plans and caprices, the things she would do and buy, the people to
whom gifts should be made and the species of gift uniquely suitable to
this person and to that person, the people to whom money might be
given and the amounts, and the methods whereby such largesse could be
distributed. Hats were mentioned and dresses, and the new house
somewhere--a space-embracing-somewhere, beyond surmise, beyond
geography. They walked onwards for a long time, so long that at last a
familiar feeling stole upon the youth. The word "food" seemed suddenly
a topic worthy of the most spirited conversation. His spirits arose.
He was no longer solid, space belonged to him also, it was in him and
of him, and so there was a song in his heart. He was hungry and the
friend of man again. Now everything was possible. The girl? Was she
not by his side? The regeneration of Ireland and of Man? That could be
done also; a little leisure and everything that can be thought can be
done: even his good looks might be returned to him: he felt the sting
and tightness of his bruises and was reassured, exultant. He was a man
predestined to bruises; they would be his meat and drink and
happiness, his refuge and sanctuary forever. Let us leave him, then,
pacing volubly by the side of Mary, and exploring with a delicate
finger his half-closed eye, which, until it was closed entirely, would
always be half-closed by the decent buffet of misfortune. His ally and
stay was hunger, and there is no better ally for any man: that
satisfied and the game is up; for hunger is life, ambition, good-will
and understanding, while fullness is all those negatives which
culminate in greediness, stupidity and decay; so his bruises troubled
him no further than as they affected the eyes of a lady wherein he
prayed to be comely.
Bruises, unless they are desperate indeed, will heal at the last for
no other reason than that they must. The inexorable compulsion of all
things is towards health or destruction, life or death, and we hasten
our joys or our woes to the logical extreme. It is urgent, therefore,
that we be joyous if we wish to live. Our heads may be as solid as is
possible, but our hearts and our heels shall be light or we are
ruined. As to the golden mean--let us have nothing to do with that
thing at all; it may only be gilded, it is very likely made of tin of
a dull color and a lamentable sound, unworthy even of being stolen;
and unless our treasures may be stolen they are of no use to us. It is
contrary to the laws of life to possess that which other people do not
want; therefore, your beer shall foam, your wife shall be pretty, and
your little truth shall have a plum in it--for this is so; that your
beer can only taste of your company, you can only know your wife when
some one else does, and your little truth shall be savored or perish.
Do you demand a big truth? Then, Oh Ambitious! you must turn aside
from all your companions and sit very quietly, and if you sit long
enough and quiet enough it may come to you; but this thing alone of
all things you cannot steal, nor can it be given to you by the County
Council. It cannot be communicated, and yet you may get it. It is
unspeakable but not unthinkable, and it is born as certainly and
unaccountably as you were yourself, and is of just as little immediate
consequence. Long, long ago in the dim beginnings of the world there
was a careless and gay young man who said--"Let truth go to hell"--and
it went there. It was his misfortune that he had to follow it; it is
ours that we are his descendants. An evil will either kill you or be
killed by you, and (the reflection is comforting) the odds are with us
in every fight waged against humanity by the dark or elemental beings.
But humanity is timid and lazy, a believer in golden means and
subterfuges and compromises, loath to address itself to any combat
until its frontiers are virtually overrun and its cities and granaries
and places of refuge are in jeopardy from those gloomy marauders. In
that wide struggle which we call Progress, evil is always the
aggressor and the vanquished, and it is right that this should be so,
for without its onslaughts and depredations humanity might fall to a
fat slumber upon its corn sacks and die snoring: or, alternatively,
lacking these valorous alarms and excursions it might become
self-satisfied and formularized, and be crushed to death by the mere
dull density of virtue. Next to good the most valuable factor in life
is evil. By the interaction of these all things are possible, and,
therefore (or for any other reason that pleases you) let us wave a
friendly hand in the direction of that bold, bad policeman whose
thoughts were not governed by the Book of Regulations which is issued
to all recruits, and who, in despite of the fact that he was enrolled
among the very legions of order, had that chaos in his soul which may
"give birth to a Dancing Star."
As to Mary--even ordinary, workaday politeness frowns on too abrupt a
departure from a lady, particularly one whom we have companioned thus
distantly from the careless simplicity of girlhood to the equally
careless but complex businesses of adolescence. The world is all before
her, and her chronicler may not be her guide. She will have adventures,
for everybody has. She will win through with them, for everybody does.
She may even meet bolder and badder men than the policeman--Shall we
then detain her? I, for one, having urgent calls elsewhere, will salute
her fingers and raise my hat and stand aside, and you will do likewise,
because it is my pleasure that you should. She will go forward, then,
to do that which is pleasing to the gods, for less than that she cannot
do, and more is not to be expected of any one.
THUS FAR THE STORY OF MARY MAKEBELIEVE
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